The Baker's Bread Basket
by TheExtraordinaryChameleon
Summary: In a world where Katniss is the Girl on Fire, no one stopped to think of the boy who gave her his love and ultimately handed her the lit torch. This is the story of Peeta, through his eyes alone. Canon, with slight AU.  Read Author's Notes for Clues


This story is going to be from the eyes of Peeta alone; the untold story in all of this. In the end of my writing, it'll cover all three books, and remain mostly canon by way of events. However, I'll be taking some liberties with things not covered, and change a couple things as we go along. It's really just to let the world see what went through Peeta's mind as his entire world change around him, starting with a single girl, the girl on fire.

Disclaimer and other important information: I am in no way taking credit or attempting to plagiarize this amazing author's work. It belongs solely to Suzanna Collins. I am merely trying to give the other side of the story, and in doing that, there will be pieces taken from the books itself, dialogue, and of course, events. Just remember it's all hers; if it were mine, the books would be awful. ~Cammy

* * *

><p>The morning of the Reaping starts like any other in my house. The familiar, gruff greeting of my father at the door, followed by a knock, wakes me up entirely, even though light from outside had started the process a few minutes before. "C'mon, son. There's bread to be baking."<p>

It passes for affection in this house. Hearing those few words is enough; they tell me more than entire speeches from my Da. Always one for being silent, he rarely says anything. But those words could be counted upon every morning, just like today. Reaping Day.

I slid from the bed and dressed. The texture of the worn corduroys reminded me of the handed down state, but it reminded me, too, of the feeling of bark on the tree, worn smooth and gouged by time. Brown pants, with a white apron thrown on over it; a grey shirt until after breakfast, and I'm ready for the morning. Following a painless routine is easy in this house, where nothing ever changes; not even my room, even after seventeen years. Dawdling, even though I shouldn't, I look around the place I've considered my sanctuary. In one corner there is a dresser, with a shard of mirror on top, surrounded by a few rough jars filled with home-made paint I experimented with once upon a time.

There's a few thumps as my elder brother, at his eighteen and last Reaping year, throws himself down the stairs. Following it are lighter steps, my twenty year old brother, and then the odd gait of my mother, who slams her hand onto the door as both way to keep her balance, and to stir me into action. "Get out here, you lazy oaf!"

There's something to be said for a woman like that, except most of the terms I've heard her called aren't too pleasant. One crone I'd seen on the streets stopped me once, saying that my mother limped because she used to be a Peacekeeper until she got beat and thrown out. Another person, a friend's father, said she twisted her leg during the trip down to the coal mines and it never healed. But each time they told me stories, they were accompanied by a few choice curses I won't repeat. Still, despite her harsh nature, I respect my mother. There's no affection lost though.

Barely able to keep from grinning, I slide out the door to join them downstairs in the kitchen.

Friends at school always assume that the ritualistic nature of making bread in the mornings brings my family closer together. It amazes me still they never see me wince. Perhaps I'm just good at hiding it, like my Da.

Mother stands over the display case, picking out the stale bread that we'll eat later on. My brothers are out back once I enter, getting flour and tending the few other chores they're graced with today. I'm due to help Da, so I tighten my apron strings and head into the kitchen.

The smells of burning wood, char, and sugar mix pleasantly, a familiar smell that is embracing, if not welcoming. Giving Da a grin, I steal a pinch of sugar and throw it onto the coals to send up the perfume again. Burnt sugar gives off a scent unlike any other; the char stings the nose, while the sugar melts into the air, coating your throat and nostrils with a sweet, bright taste. I love doing it, but Mother disapproves. That's why today will be a good day, baking bread with my Da.

The work that seems tedious to others takes me little time to do. Kneading the bread; sifting flour; sorting out spices of the certain specialty bakes the family makes; mixing the dough; greasing the pans; adjusting the oven and switching pans, the work is easy to me. Since I was four, I've been working in the kitchen, learning my way around it. Of course, some of the more complicated things, like the ovens and grinding flour, were left until I was older, but this is stuff I know how to accomplish even asleep. Together with my Da, we fly through the business of making the bread, until two hours after dawn; the loaves for the day are made, sitting on cooling racks in the sun, where they'll keep warm while the ceremonies happen with the District.

Da claps me on the shoulder and nods slightly, leaving a flour handprint on the now dirty grey of the shirt. I nod and slip off the apron, following his lead into the tiny room offside the kitchen, where we eat. He's made a fresh loaf for us, unusual, but bolstering my good mood.

That's what people say is different about me. I'm the type of guy who's always in a good mood. It's because I don't dread things. Everything, hard, good, bad, is taken with the same confidence as anything else. So the Reaping Day isn't one of horror, because I don't go into it dreading being picked. I mean, I don't want to be, but what's the harm in some optimism? I'm one name in the midst of a thousand others. At seventeen, I've got five slips in. The likeliness of my name being drawn is the same with my chances of burning my hand off in the oven: A fifty-fifty chance that I'll take with a smile.

Mother bites out a remark as soon as we all sit down. "Can't you lot be on time for once? Lousy imbeciles, and to think you run my shop."

My brothers snicker behind their hands as they take slices of bread from my Da; I take mine, keeping my eyes away from our matron, who continues to rail at us throughout the entire meal. The trick is to tune it out, and I do that by quietly munching on the cinnamon-spiced slice and thinking about the Reaping today.

Every year since the Treaty of Treason, which they read out loud every year as a reminder, the Hunger Games have been dreaded by many, loved by some, and a constant, shaping factor in our lives. Not only does the Capitol control us, but they send out children to fight the reenacted battle of the Uprising, to show us that they're entirely in control. I know they are; every person does. What I don't understand is why it's called the Hunger Games, not the Uprising, or some other term.

I don't remember being hungry. Not the type of hungry where it's a rumble in your stomach; the kind of hungry where it's all you can think, as it gnaws at your being and takes over. I mean, I've seen it, living in one of the poorest Districts. Walking along the streets and seeing some child bent over, clutching a bloated stomach for want of something to give them the energy to make it home. I tried to give one child bread before. My mother whipped me afterwards.

The sound of a cough draws me from my breakfast and everyone else; lifting my head, my eyes focus on Da, who's the one to make the noise. Even Mother's silent for once. "May the odds… be ever in your favour," he says gruffly, quietly, before taking his plate and going into the kitchen. Mother stares, as do we all, before her strident words drive us to go and get dressed properly. The Reaping begins in a half hour.

In clean white shirt now, buttons done up and all, I wait in line with a few of the boys I know hanging around, each rather somber, even though the oldest, Bennet, is trying to crack jokes. Being eighteen makes him feel untouchable now, I guess. I smile at one attempt for humour, but that's it. Here in the plaza, with everyone else so somber, being carefree is hard to maintain. The only bit of worry I have in my head begins to bother me, continually, as I look around.

And then, she's there. Katniss Everdeen. Her little sister is in tow next to her and both look brighter than ever, dressed up. It doesn't seem to fit Katniss to me- the blue is lovely, but she's more suited to depths of green, shades of the forest. Her and Gale's hunting is the worst kept secret in the District. Besides, I've eaten her squirrels. Somehow, that's enough reassurance for my mind to allow the odd comments on her dress color.

The process of being checked in goes on for a few minutes longer before I'm free and left to follow the rest of the sober crowd, all of my own age, to the pen that the Capitol officials and Peacekeepers set up for us. "Penned animals to the slaughter," Bennet says, not joking now. He looks as morbid as anyone else, his age aside. _Good,_ I think rather smugly. There's a difference between optimism and mocking. And in the Districts, the difference means your life and everyone else's too.

The crowd goes silent and the Treaty of Treason drones on from our Mayor, whose name consistently escapes me. The people in power don't matter, really, if you don't let them, if you don't think about them.

The pink haired woman is up now, speaking, but I can't hear her. It's the optimism again, the feeling of lightness in the mind. Today's a good day, Reaping or not. Everything has been great, even with my mother's insults. Da, the bread, the typical if unusual from him remarks, the clean shirt. I feel lucky. Today, perhaps, won't end badly.

"Primrose Everdeen."

I'd miss her entire speech, thankfully. But I didn't miss the name, or the looks that a bunch of others begin to turn to the front of the pen, where the youngest children are. Girls part to allow the blonde beauty to come from between them, and as her face becomes apparent, my breath catches. In her face is her sister's. Prim, so loved by everyone, including my Da, is the tribute. She looks near tears as she takes a hesitant step forward.

"Prim!" The voice breaks, only just, as the female cries out for the little girl. Katniss pushes forward, parting people by force, to get her way up to the front. "I volunteer! I volunteer as tribute!"

The words send the optimism away into a cold, bleak place; I'm barely breathing, strangling silently there as I watch the scene that wrenches my heart. The girl with her hair in one braid shouldn't do this to me, especially since I know that she doesn't even know I exist. But it does, and the ache only intensifies as Prim begins to struggle, her tiny arms going to encompass her sister as Katniss pushes her back. Barely heard is Effie's "Lovely!" A pause follows as she looks towards the mayor set up on a chair beside her. "But I believe there's a small matter of introducing the reaping winner and then asking for volunteers, and if one does come forth then we, um . . ." she trails off, unsure herself. He says something unintelligible in response. From back here, you can't hear over the sound of Prim's crying as she fights back. "No, Katnis! No! You can't go!"

Her harsh words float back, and they manage to do something to stop the ensuing chaos. "Prim, let go." Is that pain? I can't tell. The boys beside me are murmuring and I want to hit them. "Let go!"

Bennet elbows me in the side, adding yet another comment to this mess of a Reaping. "Looks like your girl's going in. Tough break, Peeta."

For once, I don't respond at all. Bennet takes the silence well. Effie's continuing on now, as Katniss is finally up on the stage with her. Prim's been taken to the back by Gale, and the Peacekeepers keep eyeing him. _If he gets drawn…_

"Well, bravo!" gushes Effie Trinket. "That's the spirit of the Games!" I don't understand how she can find this so amazing. A sixteen year old girl stepped in to save her twelve year old sister, and she'll most likely – the thought makes me stomach clench—end up as dead as any other tributes from any other year. Yet Effie smiles like it's life-changing and exciting. It must be, for the Capitol's people.

"What's your name?"

"Katniss Everdeen."

"I bet my buttons that was your sister. Don't want her to steal all the glory, do we? Come on, everybody! Let's give a big round of applause to our newest tribute!" trills Effie Trinket.

I want to scream out the real reason for the sudden act. Katniss doesn't want her sister to die. The entire District knows this. We've watched this girl survive, watched her sister learn to be a child. Not one of them will like Effie for this. No one will approve. But the Capitol's word is law, and there's absolutely nothing we can do.

Bennet starts it. His hand goes up, knocking me, and he presses the first three fingers of his left hand to his lips, then into the air. He gives me a half-smile before his face goes blank again.

In District 12, among those who aren't from the higher class of the place, there's many stories told still. Bennet's grandmother, before she passed, told us both them all. The salute, the one he just performed, is shown to those who are admired, to those who will be lost. To those who are loved.

I touch my fingers to my lips, my wishes for a different outcome unspoken on them as my arm goes up in the air to follow Bennet's; not a sound is heard as every person, even those who take bets, puts their hand into the air for Katniss. Her expression changes from the hard mask she's always had, but whatever it was going to be, I'll never know; Haymitch, the only one to not raise his hand, chooses this moment to stumble onto the stage and begin rambling, obviously intoxicated as his words slur together in a stream of speech.

My thoughts take hold, finally; I may be a male, but that doesn't exempt me from emotions, or thoughts, or memories. Or, my favorite, dreams. I can't help it. Even though the other boys in my class could capture my attention with wrestling, or some other hobby, I saw into things; the colors that wove them together, the meaning behind it. I saw, even if I did nothing. Looking up at Katniss, I saw her fiery personality. I saw my feelings for her, forever silenced now that she would surely be lost. The ache in my stomach increased; how stupid could I be, thinking of my feelings for her? A crush, a deep crush, but not now. I wouldn't suffer nearly as much as her family would as they would see her play in the Hunger Games. But while they would suffer the most, they wouldn't be the only ones.

Effie's talked some more, and moved over to the other ball. There's a pause, an intake of breath, and like a whimsical fool, I find myself wishing on the good luck of the day. The wish is unclear, just like the screens broadcasting the affair, just like the liquor everyone knows is in Haymitch's bottle. Just like the rough paints I made once, when I tried to show the dreams I'd been having around the age of eleven, dreams of a murky night, when a girl with bright grey eyes lurked in my backyard…

"Peeta Mallerk!"


End file.
